Joyride
Colleen Collins
SHE'S HAVING THE RIDE OF HER LIFE…Corinne McCourt is starting over…the right way! After discovering her fiance with another woman, she's determined to be more daring, spontaneous…sexy. And what better way to begin than by swiping her fiance's precious Ferrari and hitting the open road….BUT WHO'D HAVE GUESSED THERE'D BE SO MANY DETOURS?Corinne's first stop–Las Vegas. There, she'll get lessons from the best–her wild child cousin, Sandee. Only, Corinne never dreams she'll end up masqueradingas her bombshell cousin–a cousin who is wanted by the law! Still, after checking out seriously sexy Detective Leo Wolfman, Corinne has a feeling that having a cop on her tail–and in her bed–will be the best ride of all…
“If you need me, I’m here,” Leo said softly
Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Corinne stepped back. As much as she wanted Leo, she had to keep her secret. Just a little longer…. “I’m okay,” she lied. Backing away from the door, she murmured, “It’s getting late.”
Leo searched her face as though trying to gauge her mood. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I should go.” Then his green-eyed gaze dropped and a corner of his mouth kicked up in a lopsided grin. “What’s that on your shirt?”
She looked down. Oh-oh…. She looked at her nightshirt, suddenly noticing the words written on the front—I’m Not Sleepy, Are You?
Leo’s grin settled into an intimate smile. And in that instant, Corinne remembered what it had been like when his lips had taken hers. Hot. Ferocious. And when his hands—roughened and strong—had caressed her. She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice refused to work. It didn’t help that Leo was staring at the words emblazened on the part of the shirt that covered her breasts. “It’s—I’m—”
“It’s okay,” he said, moving closer. “I’m not sleepy, either….”
Dear Reader,
Have you ever wanted to run away from it all—maybe in a splashy, to-die-for car to boot—and become someone else for a few days? Someone who’s wildly, provocatively different? In a place where you could act out a lifestyle you’ve always dreamed about?
Well, Corinne McCourt, my heroine, gets that chance…although she really didn’t mean to steal her ex-fiancé’s Ferrari, exchange her boring skirts and blouses for slinky dresses or end up taking the job of a bikini-clad babe in a Las Vegas boxing ring! But for all the external changes in her life, perhaps the most profound change is in the person she becomes….
And of course, it doesn’t hurt that a detective who has the charm of Mel Gibson and the attitude of Billy Idol enters her life, curious to figure out just what kind of woman Corinne’s pretending to be—and liking what he finds….
So enjoy the ride—the Joyride, that is—and indulge in a few fantasies of your own.
Colleen Collins
Books by Colleen Collins
HARLEQUIN DUETS
10—MARRIED AFTER BREAKFAST
22—ROUGH AND RUGGED
30—IN BED WITH THE PIRATE
39—SHE’S GOT MAIL!
Joyride
Colleen Collins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my editor, Brenda Chin, for keeping the faith.
Contents
Chapter 1 (#u2649507c-4e77-5020-ad0b-24f3ac2963f3)
Chapter 2 (#uccff8073-7b39-5759-9853-2f3ca166fdd4)
Chapter 3 (#uec71cbb2-ceac-5cdd-bf9a-a861e8582b80)
Chapter 4 (#udef29467-ba85-51cf-8685-406b5d5cc64b)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
1
CORINNE MCCOURT STOOD in front of the full-length mirror and checked out her naked twenty-eight-year-old body. At five-six—give or take a few inches—she wasn’t exactly statuesque, but had strong legs thanks to her morning runs and a compact behind thanks to genetics. She looked at her rounded breasts and wished her live-in fiancé Tony Borgeson felt thankful for them again. Once upon a time he’d called them his “luscious vanilla double scoops.” She tilted her head. “They still look scoopable,” she whispered, hating the question in her voice. What happened? Five years ago, when they first got involved, he couldn’t scoop enough. She’d nicknamed him Bulldozer.
These days she was lucky if she got even a little dozer.
Playing with the gold heart pendant around her neck, Corinne surveyed the full-length mirror she’d installed a month ago—one of her recent ploys to put some va-va-voom back into their relationship. She’d read in a women’s magazine where couples and mirrors could be a lethal libido combo that ignited the fires of love.
Unfortunately, the only thing mirrors ignited in Tony was admiration for himself. Every morning, he preened in front of that mirror more than a pet parakeet she’d had as a kid, checking out everything from his stylish tie to his killer smile. She once reminded him that he sold computers. Who cared about his smile? Never breaking eye contact with his reflection, he’d announced that a sale was a sale—whether it was lawn mowers or laptops—and first impressions were everything.
She looked down at her very unimpressive tummy. To think most women complained their stomachs weren’t flat enough! Not Corinne. What she’d give to have a round tummy. Round and full with child. Growing up as an only child, Corinne had dreamed of having a large family of her own. A family who stayed put, like Tony’s large Italian family who’d lived in this section of Denver for generations. Unlike Corinne, who—due to her mother’s various marriages and near-marriages—had moved six times by the time she was nineteen.
She slid her fingers over her midriff, remembering her girlfriend Cheryl, when she’d been eight months pregnant, saying her baby was crowding her heart. “I want my heart crowded, too,” Corinne pleaded softly. Which meant she had to pin the wedding date—something Tony swore he wanted to do but never got around to—and rev his engine just the way he revved his precious Ferrari, which he’d nicknamed “Baby.”
His choice of a nickname had always confused Corinne—didn’t he realize how much she wanted a baby? Their baby? But remembering her mother’s words (“If you want a man to do something, honey, show ’im. Don’t tell ’im.”), Corinne had kept her mouth shut. She’d never been as flamboyant as her mother, so showing wasn’t easy for Corinne. But today, despite her flutterings of anxiety—mixed with excitement—Corinne was going to show, really show, the things she wanted. Passion. Intimate communion with her hubby-to-be. And, eventually, there’d be…
“…A new baby,” Corinne murmured. Yessiree, with her new va-va-voom plan, she’d be married and pregnant before Tony ran out of killer smiles.
To get things va-vooming, her best pal Kyle had suggested she borrow his book How to Make Your Man Howl. Playing by the book, following all the rules, were right up Corinne’s alley…but the sizzingly sexy ideas in How to Make Your Man Howl nearly curled Corinne’s already wavy hair. Okay, previously she’d attempted some sizzle by hanging the bedroom mirror, but that act had challenged every cell in her inhibited body. She’d been so anxious nailing the mirror to the wall, the darn thing hung at an angle. And her desired result had backfired. Tony, preoccupied with the angle instead of the ardor, instructed her to next time hire a carpenter.
After the mirror idea cracked, Kyle reminded her that How to Make Your Man Howl had worked wonders in his relationship with Geoff. And if a gay man didn’t understand what made men tick, who did?
So Corinne had flipped through some of its chapters: “Handcuffs Aren’t Just for Criminals,” “Getting Wild in the Outdoors,” “Be a Gift—Let Him Unwrap You.” Corinne wasn’t sure about the handcuffs. They didn’t look very sexy in cop flicks. And outdoors? Her neighbor, old Mr. Valdez, might have a coronary. But being unwrapped? Heck, everybody in the world undressed every day…according to the book, all she had to do was think sexy in the process.
So she planned the grand unveiling for today. Normally, every June 8, she attended her company’s annual picnic. Corinne had been at Universal Shower Door almost as long as she’d been with Tony—five years, give or take a month. And every annual picnic she showed up with her annual dish, Jell-O Surprise.
But not this year.
This year she was going to serve Corinne Surprise when Tony came home for lunch. A hot thrill zigzagged through her as she imagined his look of shock, then hot arousal, when he found his fiancée, the gift!
Corinne glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Eleven-ten. Tony would be home in twenty minutes. Gift-wrapping time! She grabbed the cylinder of clear plastic wrap she’d purchased this morning at the supermarket. With trembling fingers, she began crookedly wrapping the slick material around her. Well, so what if it wasn’t on straight. Unlike the mirror, this plastic stuff wasn’t meant to stay on long. Minutes, tops.
Humming one of her favorite Céline Dion tunes, Corinne checked her progress in the mirror. She imagined her sleek lines as the lines of his precious Ferrari—the glossy, shimmering coating like the slick, soapy water that sluiced over the car’s body when he washed it. Except, unlike with his Ferrari, Tony would lose control with Corinne and tear off the plastic. And amid the ripping, groaning and howling, she’d tease him to take extra care with her bumpers.
Me, teasing like that? She pressed a fingertip against her bottom lip, as though pushing back the forbidden thought. Then she dropped her hand and giggled softly. “I’ve installed a mirror, dressed hot in freezer wrap. Maybe the new Corinne sometimes jokes during lovemaking, too!” She was liking this new side of herself. Maybe, after the let-’er-rip sex, she’d even be bold enough to demand they set a wedding date. After all, Tony’s large Italian family expected it, so with a little sizzling encouragement, Corinne would help nail that expectation. Gee, considering she was on the brink of nailing a date, what should she ask for? Five months from now? Five weeks?
She checked the clock. Five minutes to show time! She finished wrapping herself, then reached for her sewing basket to retrieve a pair of scissors. As she fumbled through spools, fabrics and buttons, it struck her as funny how, after years of sewing practical skirts and demure blouses, here she was snipping off the end of a clear plastic minidress that showed way more than her intentions!
After cutting a slit so she could walk, Corinne turned to the mirror and checked out the overall effect. “They wouldn’t call me Inconspicuous Corinne at work now!” Her breasts swelled over the minidress like two luscious scoops. Her perky nipples pressed through the clear sheath. And below, through layers of shimmering plastic, you could see a curly triangle. She gave her head a toss, liking the tousled effect of her newly colored shoulder-length glossy blond hair. Wilder, more daring than her normal red hair, which was turning a sedate auburn. Plus this new, sassy blond was almost the same color as Tony’s Ferrari—that rare “hot gold” he bragged about to his pals.
“Now for the pièce de résistance,” she gloated, tiptoeing to the closet. She’d bought a pair of black stiletto heels especially for this occasion. On her allowance, she’d have had to save for weeks to buy these shoes. But Lady Luck had been on her side—they’d been half price. When the middle-aged salesman said their price was slashed because women never wore heels like this anymore, she’d felt her face burn hot, certain he knew she was buying them for sex. When he’d asked her to walk in them, she’d stumbled a few feet, stopped, and swaying a little had squeaked, “They’re perfect!”
Okay, it was going to be a challenge walking in these skyscrapers again, but she was a woman on a mission. A make-love-to-her-fiancé mission. A get-married mission.
A make-a-baby mission.
Slipping into the high heels was tougher than she remembered back at the shoe store. The arch was so high, she had to shove her foot in. Reminded her of the time she’d shoved her wild cousin Sandee through the back window of some guy’s Chevy. That had been fifteen years ago when Corinne and her mom moved to a small Texas town, following her mom’s divorce number two, to be close to the only family Corinne had ever known—Aunt Judy, her mom’s identical twin, and Judy’s daughter, Sandee. Since those teenage years, Corinne rarely saw Sandee, who now lived in Las Vegas, although they had occasional phone calls where they girl-talked for hours. One of those calls had been just last week…Sandee had been worried about a bump and run, but didn’t give details. And Corinne didn’t pry, although she’d been dying to ask questions because Sandee’s bump and run sounded like a possible chapter in How to Make Your Man Howl.
“Eiiyyy!” Corinne emitted her own howl as she teetered in the heels. Stumbling a few feet, she grabbed the mahogany bedpost and caught her balance. Holding on to the smooth wooden pole, she sucked in several shaky breaths. This is crazy. I won’t look like a hot babe if I’m teetering and stumbling, flailing my arms for balance. For a stinging moment, she thought she was going to cry.
No! She pressed her lips together, careful to not smudge her lipstick. I want to be married. I want a baby. I’m going to be sexy if it kills me! Realizing her last thought, she started giggling uncontrollably. “I look like a walking—well, stumbling—ad for How to Make Your Man Howl,” she whispered to herself. “If this kills me, at least I’ll go out of this world looking like one burning hunkess of love! Talk about ‘showing’!”
Grinning with a surge of confidence, she straightened, let go of the bedpost, and teetered toward the foyer.
Scratch. Click.
Tony’s key in the lock!
Corinne almost tripped as she skidded to a stop in front of the door. Show time! She stood, spread-eagled. What to do with her hands? She flashed on the chapter “Bondage—It’s Not Just for Breakfast Anymore.” Shakily, she held her hands above her head, wrists crossed.
The door creaked open. Corinne closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, forcing her double scoops high. She felt like an overheated car engine, ready to rip loose and roar…
“Stop it!” squealed a nasally woman’s voice. “Wait’ll we get inside, Tiger Boy.”
Tiger Boy? Corinne opened her eyes. Some frizzy-haired blonde, her body squeezed like a sausage into a low-cut pink number, was nuzzling and rubbing against…Tony!
He looked up, his dark eyes meeting Corinne’s. His killer smile died. “This isn’t want you think,” he said sharply, gesturing emphatically with the hand that wasn’t around the blonde.
Corinne’s insides shattered, like a splintered mirror. Think? She couldn’t even breathe. Hell, she couldn’t even move! Feeling ridiculously vulnerable, she wanted to cover her nearly naked body but her hands felt soldered to the top of her hot-gold head.
The blonde reared back. “What the hell—?” She turned to Tony. “Is that your cleaning lady?”
“Cleaning—?” A burning rage tore through Corinne, thawing her frozen state. Dropping her hands, she fisted them in front of her. She’d never hit anyone or anything in her life—but right now she could probably cream Mike Tyson. “That’s right! I’m the cleaning lady, the seamstress, the washer woman…everything but the banker because ol’ Tiger Boy here takes my checks and only gives me a frickin’ allowance.”
She’d never seen that look on Tony’s face. Slack jawed. His eyes wide, dark. For a hotheaded Italian, he was suddenly acting very, very cool. No, make that shocked. And not at her gift-wrapped getup, but at her reaction. Corinne had never yelled at him. Never spoken her mind. Well, she’d only just started!
As she stepped from one high-heeled foot to the other, like a runner prancing before a race, a drop of sweat rolled down her chest and disappeared between her plastic-wrapped scoops. In the back of her mind, it hit her that suddenly she wasn’t teetering. “To sum it up,” she continued, not caring that she was yelling, “I’m the wife-who-wasn’t!” She fought the urge to cry and scream as she finished. “And obviously, I’m also the last one to know!”
“Tony,” whispered the blonde, “I think your cleaning lady is helping herself to the liquor cabinet—”
Tony cut her off. “Baby,” he said, tossing his keys on a side table. “Why don’t you go into the other room…”
Baby. Corinne could almost forgive the nickname for his car—but for another woman? While his fiancée was so desperate to get married and have a baby?
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” The blonde jabbed his chest with an inch-long crimson nail. “You bring me to your house for a nooner and we’re greeted by some plastic-wrapped maid with a deranged wife fantasy?”
Corinne’s heart twisted. Plastic-wrapped. Like leftovers. But the blonde had one thing right. Corinne definitely had a deranged wife fantasy. She’d been a fool wanting to marry this two-timing, self-absorbed Tiger Boy…who had a lot of nerve wearing that crucifix his mother had given him, as though he needed protection from the evil in the world!
Corinne glanced at his car keys on the table. Tony and the blonde were yelling at each other as though Corinne didn’t exist. Here she was, dressed like some kind of hausfrau hooker, and she was still being treated like Inconspicuous Corinne.
Well, no more!
Minutes ago, she’d shakily wrapped herself in this getup, thrilled at her audacious first step at shedding her inhibitions. Well, forget first steps. She was taking a flying leap!
In a rush of movement, Corinne snatched the keys off the table. In a stiff-kneed speed walk, she beelined past the arguing couple and across the lawn to the Ferrari parked in the driveway. Jumping inside, she shoved the key into the ignition. As the engine roared to life, Tony tore across the lawn, yelling a string of profanities—some Italian, some English.
Corinne didn’t try to decipher which was which as she shoved the gear into reverse and squealed down the driveway, smoking rubber obliterating the vision of her home, her husband-to-be, her future. In a moment of dread, mixed with a strange anticipation, she realized she was shedding more than her inhibitions, she was shedding her entire life.
As she ground the gear into first, she stuck her other hand out the sunroof. “Bye bye, Baby!” she yelled before punching the gas.
A MANILLA FOLDER LANDED with a slap on Leo’s desk. “Guy claims an oversized redhead stole his classic Studebaker,” said a gravelly male voice. “More like a classic bump and run. Couldn’t have been Lizzie ’cause she had a thing for Acura Integras.”
Leo slugged a mouthful of scalding coffee. Too hot. But damn if he’d let on he’d just singed a layer of skin off his tongue.
“Sorry,” Dom murmured, rubbing his temple. “Shouldn’t make Lizzie jokes. Bad taste.”
Real bad. Leo coughed and stared at the folder, pretending to be absorbed in this Studebaker case, but his mind was on Elizabeth—Lizzie—his former wife. Everybody had known how much he loved her. Hell, everyone loved her. She’d had a knack for getting to people with her infectious devil-may-care style.
And just as everyone had known Lizzie, everyone knew the story. How he’d been on a raid and discovered his devil-may-care wife was no angel. Caught her in a drug-bust sting. How he’d been shot at damn near point blank range because he’d been tunnel-visioned on his wife, unable to move, to digest the hellish reality. After getting out of the hospital, the department had pressured him to see a shrink but it had ripped his gut apart to talk about her, so he’d stopped going. Since then, he never talked about her to anyone else. Except Mel, the parrot, and then only after a few drinks.
But even then, he never called her “Lizzie.” Always “Elizabeth” as though saying her full, Christian name could distance the devil.
“When do I get a real case, Dom?” asked Leo, changing the subject. “I’m thirty-five, your best detective, and you’re assigning me senior citizen nits. Next I’ll be tracking a stolen walker.” But in Leo’s heart, he wondered if he even wanted a “real” case. He figured he kept asking because being a cop was the only job he’d ever known.
Dom lifted his eyebrows, which lay like a fuzzy caterpillar across the captain’s brow. He opened his mouth to respond, but Leo cut in.
“If you’d gotten shot because your wife was…” The rest of the sentence tasted bitter, so Leo let it hang. Defensive. Again. One of his newer, more pleasant personality traits since the crash-and-burn of his marriage, his life. “Forget it.” He picked up a pen. “Studebaker,” he repeated, writing the word on a legal pad. “Overage geriatric owner. Oversized—whatever that means—redheaded thief.” He stopped writing and looked up. “And who said Vegas has become nothing but a big family town?”
Leo had lived here all his life. Watched his dad walk out on the family. Watched his mom raise her two sons single-handedly, one of whom was hell on wheels. By seventeen, Leo had been an accomplished delinquent who specialized in hot-wiring cars for joyrides…but his hobby came to a screeching halt when his mom remarried, this time to a cop.
At first Leo hated his new stepfather, whom Leo called “Hobo Cop” behind his back. But despite Leo’s attitude, his stepdad never wavered on dishing out discipline…or love. One day, Leo accidentally called this man “Dad.” And when the man, in return, called him “Son,” Leo knew he wanted to grow up to be a cop.
Which he became. And after that, a hotshot detective. But now he was on desk duty, his career stalled. Just like his life. Some days he wanted to start over, pack up his antiquated Airstream and head out to some new frontier, finding a small ranch in which to spend the rest of his days. Especially while recovering from the shooting, he’d had a lot of time to indulge in this fantasy. In his darker moments, it’d given him hope to plan how long it’d take to save for a down payment on this ranch…he’d figured two years would nail it…
The sound of Dom shoving aside a bag of pretzels and a half-eaten Twinkie brought Leo back from the ranch fantasy to the desk reality. “You should eat better,” Dom grumbled, planting himself on the edge of the desk. Crossing his arms over his uniformed chest, Dom continued, “I know you hate desk duty. Trust me, if we had our way in the precinct, we’d pay you to stay home.” Dom grinned, then turned somber again. “It’s tough enough getting shot—worse being forced to take a paid leave. Let me remind you that you were to remain on leave for a full year, but not Leo Wolf-man—”
“I would’ve had to take my parrot to AA if I stayed home one day longer.”
Dom cocked his eyebrow, which looked as though the caterpillar was arching its back. “He wouldn’t drink wine if you didn’t pour him a glass.”
“Hate to drink alone. Besides, Mel gets cranky when he’s sober.”
“A parrot named after Mel Gibson,” Dom muttered, shaking his head.
“My alter ego. He gets to see real action in those cop flicks with Danny what’s-his-name. Not sit behind some desk playing male secretary.”
“You’re not a secretary, you’re a detective.”
Leo did a dramatic double take. “And these four months I’ve been fetching coffee and typing with two fingers, dreaming one day I’d be promoted to office manager.”
Dom heaved a sigh. “Why don’t you stay home and let Mel do desk duty? At least he doesn’t talk back…too much.”
Leo had bought the parrot after Elizabeth took the furniture, Acura, even his hallowed collection of Hot Wheels while Leo was in the hospital recuperating. He hadn’t really cared that she cleaned out the place—saved him dumping anything that reminded him of her. But when the hospital released him to go home, it had been lonely.
Damn lonely.
That’s when he’d decided to buy a pet. One that wouldn’t be underfoot all the time. A parrot seemed perfect. A flying, lighthearted, conversational pet. Unfortunately, Mel preferred to walk, had the attitude of a curmudgeon, and wouldn’t talk unless he felt like griping. The two of them housebound was like a bad remake of Grumpy Old Men.
Old men. Leo glared at the folder. “I didn’t become a detective to follow up on old lady purse snatchers and old men car nabbers.”
“Give me a break, Wolfman. You’ve been through a trauma—the department’s easing you in. Think of this as a promotion. You’re graduating from purses to Studebakers.”
Dom had a point. But Leo wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting as much. “When I wrap up this Studebaker mystery, give me something I can sink my teeth into.”
Dom squinted at Leo, as though to see him better. After a pause, he stood up and brushed some pretzel crumbs off his pants. “Wrap this one up nice and neat, and we’ll talk.”
Dom’s word was better than a signature. “We’ll talk” meant Leo had a chance to break out of desk hell. “Deal.”
CORINNE STOOD ON the porch of her best buddy Kyle’s apartment and jabbed at the doorbell. She prayed he’d answer the door—she wasn’t in the mood to flash his partner, Geoff, who despised her. Kyle had once explained that Geoff got jealous of the time Kyle and Corinne spent together—that Geoff viewed Corinne as “the other woman.”
“Me, the other woman,” she muttered, holding one hand over her breasts, the other over her thighs, not sure if she was really covering anything at all. “I can’t excite my fiancé, but a gay man views me as competition.”
The door swung open. Kyle, a chocolate-dipped strawberry in his hand, leaned over a little, a look of shock on his face. “Corinne?” His gaze wandered down her plastic-wrapped torso. “What are you doing dressed in company property?”
They both worked at Universal Shower Door, which had a sideline of shower curtains as well. “Like it?” she asked in a high-pitched squeal that bordered on hysteria. “I’m also wearing curtain rings as earrings!”
Kyle gently pulled her inside. “Honey, honey, honey,” he murmured, holding her close.
That did it. She’d been strong facing Tony’s infidelity. And nothing short of courageous driving across Denver in a see-through getup while madly pumping pedals in stilettos. But right now, she was tired of being strong. Sinking against Kyle, she sputtered tearfully, “Tony. Gift-wrapped. Blonde.”
Kyle paused, then said quietly, “If Tony has a thing for gift-wrapping blondes, he should be ecstatic that his fiancée now has beautiful golden locks…” He stepped back and looked into her eyes. “What happened, honey?”
She swallowed, hard. “I took your advice and made my man howl, all right—I stole his macho sports car.”
“You stole Baby Ferrari?”
“Yes, stole,” she admitted, “and I’m never returning it or me to him. From now on, I’m my own woman.” She hadn’t even known she felt that way until she’d blurted the words. It was as though her shattered insides were resolidifying into a new Corinne. But her bravado shrank a little. A new Corinne with no home. No money. No clothes. “I’d ask to stay here, but Geoff would freak—”
“To put it mildly.”
“I’m in a bind.”
Kyle looked her up and down. “To put it strongly.” He dangled the strawberry between them. “Want a bite? Sweets for the…” He looked her up and down. “…spicy?”
“No thanks.” She grinned. Only Kyle could make her laugh in the middle of a life crisis. Gesturing toward the road, she said, “I can’t park that Ferrari on a public street—when Tony figures out I’m not returning, he’ll call the police, and they’ll find it faster than Geoff can say ‘the other woman.”’ She sucked in a ragged breath. “Tony’s been fooling around on me. With a dumpy blonde with the most nonluscious vanilla scoops you’ve ever seen!” The image of that over-packed blonde hurt. Deep.
Kyle waited a moment before responding. “Dumpy?” He snorted dramatically. “He should be jailed! As for those nonvanilla scoops—”
“Nonluscious—”
“We should sic the Baskin and Robbins police on him!”
“And tell them to stick him in a freezer, dressed only in a pair of his tiger-striped G-strings.” No doubt that’s where Blondie got “Tiger Boy.” Corinne was tempted to add a few more imaginative punishments for Tony when she heard a noise inside the apartment. “Who’s here?”
“Geoff and a few friends.”
“What’re they doing here?”
“Well, Geoff lives here. The others are a few out-of-town friends who’re spending the week with us.”
“Oh God.” Teetering a little on her high heels, Corinne grabbed Kyle’s arms for balance. “What am I going to do? It’s bad enough I’ve stolen Tony’s Ferrari. Now I’m naked in an apartment filled with strange men.”
Kyle chuckled. “All men are strange, darling, but these happen to also be gay. So trust me—you’re safer than a meatball at a vegetarian banquet.” He nibbled on the end of the strawberry while looking her over. “We need to get you into clothes—” He met her eyes. “—then plan what’s next in the life of Corinne Mc-Court.”
Kyle offered her his arm. “As we have to pass through the dining room to get to the bedroom where we can raid Geoff’s closet, I suggest we pretend you’re Judy Garland and I’m Fred Astaire strolling along in the Easter Parade.”
“Was Judy naked?”
“Yes, but she wore a hat.”
“You’re lying.” She took Kyle’s arm. “This isn’t fair. You’re fully dressed. I’m almost nude.”
Kyle shot her a whimsical smile. “Trust me, darling, no one will notice.”
2
AN HOUR LATER, Corinne headed west along I-70, tearing across the blacktop in a low-cut slinky number, looking like a Liza Minelli wanna-be from her Cabaret days. Piled on the back seat were a stack of Geoff’s dresses—a variety of skimpy, sequined numbers that Cher would kill for. Geoff had gone full-tilt drama queen upon hearing Kyle and Corinne would be raiding Geoff’s closet. But when Kyle mentioned Corinne would be forced to live with them until she rebuilt her wardrobe, Geoff became ultra magnanimous, offering her dresses, makeup, even a rhinestone dog collar that doubled as a tiara.
She took it all. Anything was better than a roll of plastic wrap.
Then she, Kyle, and four gay men brainstormed her next steps. Everyone agreed she needed an R and R—a fun, relaxing, adventurous getaway before making any serious life changes.
“You never play!” Kyle had chided. “And, darling, you deserve some major playground time after what Tigger’s put you through.” After she told them about “Tiger Boy,” they’d coined a new nickname, Tigger, to take some of the sting out of the situation. It sort of worked. The way a salve momentarily takes the sting out of a scraped knee.
Or a joke momentarily takes the sting out of a broken heart.
Determined to mend that broken heart, Corinne mulled over Kyle’s comment about “playground time.” It took her all of two seconds to associate that concept with her cousin Sandee. Wild, fun-loving Sandee—the complete opposite of mild, sedate Corinne. Maybe, on the outside, they were as different as oil and water, but mix them up, and some secret part merged, forming a special world only they shared. A world where they let down their guards and discussed their dreams and fears…a world where they discovered that, deep inside, they weren’t so different after all.
Fortunately, Universal Shower Door owed Corinne several weeks’ vacation. As the guys cheered her on, Corinne phoned her cousin in Vegas who, after hearing about Tony’s two-timing, had demanded Corinne “get her butt out here, now.”
Kyle’s friends then took up a collection. After a group hug, where Corinne confessed with a giggle that she’d always wanted to be held by four men at once, she was now driving a stolen Ferrari across the country with three hundred and fifty dollars in her new silver-beaded purse.
It was like being a glamorous Louise minus the Thelma.
Two days later, Corinne arrived on Sandee’s doorstep. After squeals of reunion and multiple hugs, Sandee pulled Corinne inside the pink-and-orange living room that made her feel as though she’d stepped into a sunset.
Or, considering she was restarting her life, a sunrise.
Sandee stuck a cigarette between her glossy peach lips and fired the tobacco with the snap of a silver lighter. After exhaling a stream of blue smoke, she smiled—an expression that had always looked more secretive than happy on Sandee. “We still look alike,” she said in her signature husky voice.
Their mothers had been identical twins, so Corinne and Sandee did look eerily alike, but their outward personalities were about as similar as Angelina Jolie and Gwyneth Paltrow.
Sandee planted her hands on her curvaceous hips, barely covered in a pair of denim shorts, and gave Corinne a once-over. “And we’re still the same size.”
Corinne darted a glance at Sandee’s breasts. “Well, give or take a few cups.”
Sandee waved her frosted-pink fingernails, tipped with tiny red roses, in a dismissive motion. “Honey, inserts can turn Bs into Ds.” She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized Corinne’s hair. “What’s with the bottle blond?”
“It’s hot gold. I colored it—” She bit her lip, hating to confess the truth, but knowing Sandee was the one person to whom she could. Corinne took a fortifying breath. “I colored it to remind Tony of his beloved Ferrari,” she finished quickly.
Sandee took a long drag on her cigarette, her eyes shooting fire, like the color of her hair. “That bast—” She released the rest of the word on a burst of smoke. She took a few steps, pivoted, and jabbed her cigarette at the air as she spoke. “Honey, never change yourself for a man. Never, never, never. Been there, done that.” Sandee’s blue eyes softened with a look that gave away that “been there, done that” hadn’t been so long ago. “If you feel an overwhelming urge to change something, honey, change it for you.” She shrugged apologetically. “Uh, sorry I cussed.”
“Cuss away,” murmured Corinne, but her thoughts were on the other things her cousin had said. Tough, strong Sandee changed herself for a guy? He must have been a very special man to have pierced her tough-skinned “been there, done that” exterior. From the pained expression in Sandee’s eyes, Corinne guessed her cousin had been pierced all the way to her heart. But even if that were true, Corinne knew Sandee would never let the world know.
“Cuss away,” Corinne repeated, realizing she’d been staring intently at her cousin, but not wanting to voice what she’d been thinking. “You can call Tony whatever you like. Except Tiger Boy.” Corinne grinned, feeling silly and happy that she could play with that term.
“You got it.” Sandee smiled, that sly, secretive smile that reminded Corinne of the Cheshire Cat. “No T. Boy. Besides, I have a list of much better names for that bozo after what he did to you. But I’ll not use them all at once—I’ll sprinkle ’em like salt on food…just enough to spice up our conversations.” She pointed at Corinne’s high heels. “Speaking of spice, dig the stilettos.” Her blue-eyed gaze roamed up the silvery body-hugging dress. “Cool look, too. Looks good with that heart necklace Aunt Charlene gave you.”
Corinne’s fingers touched the locket, the sole item from her former life. A gift from her mom on Corinne’s sixteenth birthday. A flickering of sadness rose within her as she realized she’d done exactly what her mother had done so many times—run away from a man. Had all the men her mother run away from been two-timing creeps like Tony? Or had her mother been incapable of sticking around, loving any man? The last thought filled Corinne with horror as she clasped the cold metal heart. I’m not incapable, she told herself, hoping it was true.
“Plus you’re in shape,” Sandee continued.
“Running.”
Sandee raised one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “You always were an outdoor girl.”
“And bowling.”
Sandee grimaced. “Don’t tell me you rent those hideous shoes that everybody and their grandfather’s worn.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.” Corinne smiled, knowing this conversation was totally grossing out Sandee, who probably wore gold high heels to church—if she went. “You look great—what do you do to work out?”
After swiping a flame-red hair out of her eye, Sandee winked saucily. “I like indoor sports.”
Corinne wanted to say something glib, make it seem that she, Conspicuous Corinne, liked indoor sports, too. But she’d never had the chance to discover if she was good at that particular sport. Based on Tony’s double-dipping, she was obviously a disappointment. How stupid she must have looked to him, sheathed in freezer wrap, when he opened that door…come to think of it, he never even checked out her sexy, see-through ensemble. His gaze never left hers…wow, Corinne McCourt goes all out to made her man howl and he doesn’t even whimper…
“Hey, Earth to cuz,” said Sandee, concern darkening her eyes. “Whatever you’re thinking, honey, let it go. He’s not worth it.”
Corinne nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Good,” Sandee said softly. “’Cause I have an idea and I think it’s gonna work out swell.” Sandee tapped the tip of her cigarette on a ceramic ashtray with the words “Circus Circus” in bright crimson script around its white perimeter. “Here’s the deal. You need a place to stay and I need a favor.”
Corinne’s antennae went up. She sensed “Sandee Trouble” just like when they were teenagers. Back then, Corinne did favors like sit in for Sandee in classes while she played hooky, play waitress at Sandee’s job while she partied, and once—one gloriously magical summer evening—she filled in for Sandee on a date that Sandee had accidentally double-booked. Fortunately, the guy had only met Sandee once, so he didn’t know the look-alike cousin wasn’t really the girl he’d asked out. An anxious Corinne had worn one of Sandee’s skimpy shifts and slathered on her makeup and perfume—something intoxicatingly spicy called “Forbidden.”
Corinne remembered shaking as she squirted the stuff on…and shaking even more, later, when she experienced her first kiss. A mouth-tingling, mind-melding, twenty-minute lip-lock whose memory, to this day, turned her insides liquid.
“So what d’ya think?” Sandee said.
“Is it forbidden?” Corinne asked breathily. She grinned as though she were teasing, but with a jolt, she knew that’s exactly why she’d come to Vegas. To be dramatic, uninhibited, forbidden. To spend two weeks being the furthest thing from the old, goody-goody, Inconspicuous Corinne.
“Forbidden? More like fun and easy money, honey!” Sandee grabbed Corinne’s hand and led her to the couch. “Take a load off—I’ll bring out some snacks and we’ll discuss the specifics.”
Corinne sank into the overstuffed pink-and-tangerine-striped couch and watched Sandee sashay out of the room, her shorts barely covering her behind. And at the end of those long, tanned legs, her bright pink manicured toes were wedged into a pair of fuchsia, sequined high-heel sandals.
Corinne smiled. Maybe her cousin’s clothes were abbreviated, but her style was unabridged. Always had been. As Sandee had always boldly proclaimed, life was too short to hide your best assets.
So what were her best assets? Considering she’d worn see-through plastic and Tony’s gaze hadn’t slipped once, she was left a bit clueless. She raised one leg, and checked out her calf. The muscle was nicely molded from her daily runs. She ran her fingers up her thighs, firm, to her tummy, flat. She tilted her head and sighed. The tummy she’d once wished would soon be round. “Well, you’re not gonna be round for a while,” she whispered.
When her stomach growled, Corinne realized she hadn’t eaten since that pit stop in some small town near the Utah border where she’d grabbed a bag of chips and a soda. Reminded her of the nights she sat up waiting for Tony, munching on a pretzel or a carrot, not wanting to spoil her dinner because she figured they’d still eat the stew—or lasagna or casserole—that’d been sitting lukewarm on the stove the last two-plus hours. After a few more pretzels, Corinne would give up and go to bed. In the morning, Tony would apologize, claiming he’d had a late business meeting with a client.
“A frizzy blond-haired client,” Corinne murmured. How could I have been so naive?
Click click click.
The staccato of Sandee’s heels brought Corinne’s thoughts back to the present. She looked up as her cousin crossed the faux wood floor of the small dining room, carrying a white wicker tray piled high with food and several pop-sized bottles. Corinne could finally walk straight in her stilettos, but it would take some practice for her to simultaneously carry trays of food like Sandee. That girl was multitalented.
“Egg rolls,” explained Sandee, pointing at some crispy fried cylinders with her rose-tipped index finger. Her finger waved over the rest of the items, like Vanna White gesturing over letters. “A chili relleno, chicken nuggets, some carrot sticks and two Mai Tais.” She set the tray on the glass coffee table next to a stack of women’s magazines.
Sandee then plopped herself onto the couch and uncorked one of the bottles with “Maui Zowie Mai Tai” embossed in purple letters on a shiny label. She toasted Corinne with a short “Here’s looking at you, kiddo,” took a sip, then began talking rapidly. “So, here’s the deal, I got this job at a local casino…”
Corinne uncorked her own Mai Tai and tasted it, liking how it fizzled sweetly on her tongue. She settled back into the cushy couch, eager to hear one of Sandee’s life stories.
“And then this dude Hank enters my life,” Sandee 30 Joyride continued, picking up an egg roll. She paused, her blue-lined eyes misting over as she looked at the roll. “Reminds me of a baby bird he picked off the asphalt once. Little thing must have fallen out of its nest. Hank—we was driving past—lurches to a stop, hops out, and picks up that little bird. Big ol’ semi barely missed Hank as he carried that little feathered creature across the road to safety.” Sandee sniffed and set the egg roll back onto the plate. “For a guy with a record, he has such a soft heart,” she whispered, her voice choking.
Sandee, crying? Could this Hank guy be the one who twisted her heart? Corinne handed her one of the cocktail napkins, then sat quietly while Sandee dabbed carefully at her eyes, expertly wiping away her tears without mussing her makeup. Corinne was way impressed. When she cried, she needed a mirror and multiple tissues to do damage control.
When Sandee gained control of herself, Corinne quietly said, “We don’t have to talk about this.”
“You kiddin’? Honey, this is part of the deal. You need to know what’s happened.” Rolling back her shoulders, Sandee cleared her throat and continued, “Hank was a lightweight contender years ago. He works as a bouncer now, but he’s mostly on standby, so his paychecks get sketchy.”
Sandee wiped her fingers on a cocktail napkin with “The Mirage” printed diagonally across it. “On our second date, Hank starts tellin’ me I’m ‘the one’ and his heart is mine forever. I’m used to stuff like that on maybe the fourth or fifth date, but on the second?” Shooting Corinne a can-you-believe it look, Sandee took another sip of her Mai Tai.
Yes, Corinne could believe it. Sandee always had that effect on men. Even when she was fourteen, the year thirteen-year-old Corinne and her mom moved to Texas. Shy, quiet Corinne had at first been aghast at her cousin who wore tube tops, skintight jeans and bright-red lipstick that matched her hair. And when the two of them walked down a street, Corinne couldn’t believe the number of catcalls and whistles Sandee got. It was like walking through a human jungle.
“So this Hank fell for you,” Corinne said, enthralled with sultry Sandee’s power over the opposite sex.
“Bam!” Sandee snapped her fingers. “Like a megaton of bricks. So after the second-date dinner—steak and candlelight, Cuz, none of that cheap stuff—when he takes me for a ride outside town, I figure the guy’s gonna pop the question.” Sandee took another sip of her Mai Tai while wriggling her perfectly plucked eyebrows at Corinne.
“So?” Corinne asked, feeling thirteen again as she listened to her wild, sexy cousin tell forbidden tales.
“So he pops all right!” Sandee slammed down her bottle. “Pops the rear end of some shiny antique car! Now we’re off the side of the road, it’s dark, and Hank and some old dude get out to exchange insurance info.”
Corinne was wanting illicit tales of lust and love, not cars and insurance. Hiding her disappointment, she helped herself to the last spicy wedge of relleno, waiting for the rest of the story.
“Suddenly,” Sandee said, her voice dropping to a dramatic low, “Hank opens the back door and shoves this old guy’s limp body into the car! I yell, ‘What the hel—?”’ Sandee blinked. “Anyway, I yell some stuff, then Hank yells back, ‘Cool it. You drive this car back to your place. I’ll meet you there.”’
Corinne almost choked on the relleno. “You—” She coughed. “You drove some dead guy back here?” She looked around, half expecting to see a leg sticking out from underneath a chair.
“He wasn’t dead.” Sandee rapped her lighter against the thick glass top of the coffee table, the tap, tap, tap adding dramatic suspense. “I get to a stop light near the Strip and Mr. Back Seat suddenly comes to life, hops outta the car and runs like hell. The light turns green and I floor it. Last thing I need is Mr. Almost-Dead flagging down a cop and pointing at Hank’s car, which yours truly is driving!”
Corinne waited. But instead of explaining further, Sandee began adjusting her top so both boobs bulged the same bulge amount. This was a woman who knew her priorities.
“So,” Corinne finally said, “is that the end of the story?” Although with Sandee, one never knew the real story.
Sandee, satisfied she was bulging appropriately, stopped her adjustment and leveled Corinne a look. “And the end of Hank! He keeps calling, calling, but I want nuthin’ to do with a bump-and-run dude. Especially when he endangered me over an old Studebaker!”
Corinne only heard the words “bump and run.” The term Sandee had used on the phone. “What’s does, uh, ‘bump and run’ mean?” Corinne took a quick, involuntary breath in anticipation of the answer. It had to be as fiery as the color of Sandee’s hair.
“It’s…” Sandee lowered her gaze, suddenly preoccupied with one of the sequins on her fuchsia-pink sandal. “It’s nuthin’ really.”
Just like her cousin to avoid the question when she was up to no good. Definitely “Sandee Trouble,” but Corinne didn’t care. She was aching to know. “Bump and run” had to be better than any chapter in How to Make Your Man Howl. Probably a book in itself! “Tell me more,” she whispered, almost losing her voice in her thrill-drenched state.
“I gotta split town,” Sandee said matter of factly.
Not exactly the “more” Corinne wanted. But before she could elaborate, Sandee began speed-talking again.
“After that crazy stunt Hank pulled, I gotta put some distance between me and him, which is where you come in. You can stay at my place—there’s a garage for the Ferrari. All I ask is you fill in for me at work.”
Corinne scuffed one stiletto-heeled foot across the rose-pink carpeting. “Fill in?”
“I’m so new there,” Sandee said, waving her hand as though this was the itsiest-bitsiest favor in the world, “nobody even knows me! Just show up on time, do the gig and split. I’ll be gone only a week or two—just enough time for Hank to cool his burners. And speaking of lover boy, he probably won’t show up at work, but if he does, just tell ’im to get lost. Considering we only had a few dates, he’ll easily believe you’re me. Tell ’im you got a hankerin’ to be blond if he asks. And he wouldn’t dare show up here ’cause my neighbor is The Phantom. You know, that hunky, mega-body star wrestler.”
“Oh, good,” Corinne said, her voice breaking on “ood.” Mega-body star wrestler? This was so dangerous, so delicious, she shivered. “I could use the money.” And the adventure. Heck, maybe she’d get a tattoo, too. Hello Angelina!
“Yeah,” Sandee agreed, arching an eyebrow. “This could work.”
Work. What was this job? Knowing Sandee, it could be anything from lion tamer to exotic dancer. Corinne better fess up about her minimal job experience so Sandee didn’t over-estimate her cousin’s abilities. “The, uh, only thing I’ve done for the past five years is payroll invoices for Universal Shower Door.”
“Perfecto!” Sandee stood, tugged on the bottom of her shorts, as though that did any good, then picked up the tray and sashayed back into the kitchen. “Shower doors are a lot like modeling. Not much between you and the world.”
“Modeling?” Corinne gulped. “I, uh, haven’t had a whole lot of experiencing doing that…”
Sandee paused at the door to the kitchen and flashed a grin. “It’ll be a breeze, sweetie,” she cooed before disappearing.
From the kitchen, Corinne heard the refrigerator door click open and shut. “I’ll take you there, show you what’s what.”
“Where’s there?”
“Boxing ring.”
3
“HERE TO SEE MY WOMAN,” Leo mumbled, shooting a smug look to the squat dude playing security guard at the MGM Grand back entrance. After years of being a Vegas detective, Leo knew all the front, back and sideways doors to the swankiest places—and all the front, back and sideways lines to get into them. Tonight was an amateur boxing match, so security wasn’t tight. No need to pretend he was a promoter or a manager. Just play a swaggering, cocksure boyfriend.
The guy grinned. With that puffy face and missing tooth, not a pretty sight. “Thought Red was Hank’s gal.”
Red. Jackpot! Hank? That was a surprise card.
Leo spat an expletive. “She’s always full of surprises,” he grumbled, shoving past Squatty as though Leo were going to straighten this out, pronto. He strutted down the dark hallway, recalling the dressing rooms were in this general vicinity, all the time listening for following footsteps. None. Cool. The enraged boyfriend act had always been a good fallback for surprise cards.
After the warmth of the Vegas summer air, the chill of the air-conditioning was like a jolt. Sharpened Leo’s senses. And attitude. The clothes helped. Tonight he’d dug through his closet and picked a pair of faded jeans…he had to cool it with the Twinkies. He’d had to suck it in to get the zipper up—didn’t help that Mel watched him, cackling.
Leo had thrown on a black ripped T-shirt that showed off some of the old brawn. Now that he was kicking Twinkies, he was starting to lift weights again. Dom was watching Leo closely. Leo could smell real work coming up. Real work meant being in shape—no brawn, no detective job. Sometimes the world was black-and-white.
He’d let his beard grow the past few days—it went with the “here to see my woman” look, but damn, this new beard itched. And tonight he hadn’t bothered to comb his thick brown hair. Bushy hair, bearded face gave him an edge…a guy needed that edge to swagger backstage at a boxing match. Either you fit in or you were out. Black or white.
Leo scratched his chin. He checked the hallway to the right. It looked familiar. Years ago he’d busted some punk on a drug charge back here. If Leo remembered correctly, the hallway led straight to the dressing rooms…in one of which he’d find the “oversized redhead” who stole the old guy’s Studebaker. He’d forgotten to ask which part of the redhead was “over-sized”—the hair, the…?
Whichever, he’d never known a young oversized redhead—or brunette or blonde—to bump and run. One of the older scams. A favorite of the quick-for-the-buck con who had a few connections and didn’t like it messy.
The Studebaker owner, an old guy named Willy, had said he’d been bumped on the outskirts of Vegas and after pulling over to exchange insurance information, he’d been sucker-punched. When Willy came to in the back seat of his car, he’d seen “Red” driving the car belonging to the guy who’d punched Willy out. Besides the pretty face and fire-engine hair, he’d caught a look of some “mile-long, bronze legs.”
That didn’t exactly narrow down the suspects considering tan, long-legged redheads were a dime a dozen in Sin City. Hell, his ex had been one. His stomach flinched as though he’d been punched. Don’t think of Elizabeth. You went through the last year of hell because she distracted you on a job—don’t let her do it again.
He forced himself to mentally switch gears, recalling the incidents that led up to his playing angry boyfriend backstage at the MGM. The old guy, Willy-something, had jumped out of the car at an intersection, then called the police and filed a report…but luck had been on his side. Two nights later, here at the fights, he’d seen the redheaded bump and runner, wiggling her bikini’d bumpers around the ring, holding up the numbers for each round.
Bingo. Easy collar.
Leo would check the dressing rooms, corner the “oversized redhead” and Dom would give Leo the chance to lead a real case again.
Pretty pathetic to steal a Studebaker over, say, a Beemer. No matter how long he’d been in this business, he’d never figured out people’s tastes. Leo stuck a toothpick in his mouth and strutted down the hallway. Before being shot, he’d been a two-pack-a-day man…until his stay in the hospital when he grumbled for a cigarette and some cocky intern asked if Leo wanted to spend the rest of his life breathing or wheezing. Leo tried to snort some surly response—but ended up coughing instead. That was the day Leo switched from cigs to picks.
As he headed down the MGM Grand hallway, a mix of cheap cologne, sweat and chlorine stung his nostrils. Leo opened the first door. Dark. He tried the second. Boxes, stacked chairs. He tried the third.
A naked blonde in black stiletto heels gasped. Her gray eyes widened, the color reminding him of dark, turbulent clouds. Of how his life had felt these past long months. Fighting to keep his gaze even with hers, he mumbled, “I’m looking for—”
The rest of his sentence was drowned by a shriek as she grabbed a square of white cardboard and held it over her face.
Now, instead of staring into a pair of eyes, he was staring at the number 1, painted in black on a glaringly white square, at least two-feet wide.
To hell with eye contact. He dropped his gaze. Those breasts weren’t the usual fake round numbers one normally saw in Vegas. These were full, pert. Like ripe pears. The pink buds tightened as though touched by his gaze. Damn. He hadn’t touched a woman’s body in so long, his hand twitched as memories of stroking satiny, perfumed skin gorged his senses.
He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He meant to finish his question, ask about the redhead, but he couldn’t stop staring. Maybe because it was so surprising to see a woman with natural curves, with skin that glowed fresh and pink with no damn tan lines. The kind of skin that smelled faintly like pineapple or apples, and felt like silk under a man’s tongue…
“Don’t look!” she squealed, shifting the “1” to cover her breasts, which he didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d already seen. Hell, memorized. And in his mind, stroked and fondled…
“Sorry,” he mumbled around the toothpick, feeling about as unsorry as he’d ever felt in his life.
With a second squeal, she realized her bottom half was still unveiled, so she shifted the sign so it covered her thighs. It was a strain, but he maintained steady eye contact, unsure what she’d do next with that cardboard square. He didn’t have to wait long. As her chin quivered, she raised the sign to again cover her face, as though too humiliated for him to see her emotions.
He meant to not look further, to give her some room, some respect. But he’d been born a man, not a saint. It would have been easier to stop the sky from falling than stop his gaze. It fell languidly over flushed skin, noting the shadow indentation along her collarbone, and how her pulse throbbed in that sensual hollow at the base of her neck. Her breathing was rapid. He lowered his gaze another notch. Her breasts heaved with her shaky, uneven breaths.
The lady was nervous.
And, unless he’d lost his every last male instinct, excited.
Her reaction threw his into overdrive. He shifted his stance, determined to get out…after all, a thoughtful man, a gentleman, would leave.
Unfortunately, he’d never been either.
His gaze traveled to the curly triangle between her legs. Some distant corner of his mind registered that the color didn’t match the hair on her head. The thought faded, replaced by more pungent memories. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, remembering the sweet, wet tang of a woman’s perfume….
You’re here for business, buddy, not a body inventory.
With an aching reluctance, he lifted his gaze back to the big number “1” that blocked her face.
Corinne’s knees trembled. Partly out of fear—the only man who’d ever seen her with her clothes off was Tony. And, to be totally honest, she also trembled with excitement. Criminey, she’d never been in the same room—much less, naked—with a guy who looked like a rugged Mel Gibson with a surly, sexy attitude like Billy Idol.
Her knees had gone beyond trembling—they were wobbling. She tightened them, pressing the balls of her feet deeper into the toes of the high heels she’d practiced walking in all day. I should have locked the door! Too late now. At least if she kept her knees rigid and remained standing, she’d be all right. Don’t topple over, don’t topple over. She didn’t even want to think of the view she’d give—sprawled in an extremely unlady-like pose underneath ceiling lights that could double as interrogation lamps.
She peeked over the top of the board and caught the top of his unruly, chestnut-brown hair. It was wild, untamed—like him, no doubt. Throw those piercing green eyes into the mix and he made the term “bad boy” seem mild. She’d never been this close to such a man. She could almost feel his heat, his need…
…his staring at her body as though he had every right to peruse every inch of her nakedness…
Corinne groaned inwardly and leaned her head against the white board she held in front of her face, torn between covering her body or her face. But if she lowered this board, he’d see her look of utter humiliation. And at this very moment, seeing her emotions felt way more revealing than his seeing her uncovered body.
She recalled several days ago when she stood in the foyer of her home, wrapped in see-through plastic. She had been teetering in these same damn heels then, too. But she’d made the mistake of staring into the man’s eyes, the man she was supposed to marry, and saw within his self-absorbed, cold gaze that he didn’t really love her…
A man she couldn’t go back to, which was her only alternative if she didn’t pull this Sandee-gig together. Pull her wits together in front of this stranger, which is exactly what Sandee would do. No squealing for him to leave, no grabbing for her robe, which right now Corinne hadn’t the vaguest where’d she’d tossed it. She sucked in a fortifying breath. What would sassy, sexy Sandee say at a time like this? “May I help you?” Corinne squeaked.
He paused. “I’m, uh, looking for…something.”
His voice, unlike hers, was in control. Rock-bottom husky with a rough edge that sent involuntary chills rippling through Corinne. Jeez, she’d never lost it like this with any man—even her fiancé! She tightened her knees even more to ensure she remained standing upright. She glanced down and caught his feet. Big—was what they said about big feet true?—encased in a pair of worn sneakers. Above that, she saw a few inches of well-washed, roughened denim. Big, rough, with enough bad boy to make her never want to be good again…
The board was quivering uncontrollably, like the rest of her body. She gripped the edges harder, praying her sweaty palms didn’t lose their hold. That red nail polish she’d borrowed from Sandee was probably melting under this sexy guy’s scrutiny.
She cleared her throat. “Well, I’m the only something here.” Forget sassy and sexy…it took all of Corinne’s strength to sound somewhat normal. “And I need to get dressed.” Like that’s a news flash.
“Mind if I look around?”
“Haven’t you seen enough?”
A low, throaty chuckle was her response. Rather than the insidious feeling she’d experienced standing near naked in front of Tony and his bimbo, this man’s sexy chuckle said way more than words. Said he found her desirable. Her skin flamed hot. Probably a lovely shade of needy, I-haven’t-had-sex-in-two-months, take-me-now-now-now pink. Hell, with such visual clues, the sign might as well say, “Caution! Love-starved woman.” She tightened her knees harder.
Had Leo seen enough? Hell, no. A long buried primal urge wanted to see, taste, feel more so damn bad he thought he’d internally combust. Had to stop scoping out the babe, finish scoping out this room, and leave. “My buddy’s wife—she works here—thought she left her purse in one of these rooms.” A reasonable excuse considering lots of women worked here—from show-girls to waitresses. Plus women always related to the purse thing.
“Make it fast. I have to get—”
“Dressed. I know.”
Damn shame considering she looked mind-melding hot in nothing but a pair of heels. He scratched his chin and forced himself to look around. One black rayon workout bag. One silver-beaded purse. For a fleeting moment, he wondered about the different sides of her personality—a no-frills workout bag and beaded evening purse. Athletic and glamorous? Not your typical Vegas showgirl-model type.
Forget the babe. Check out the room. Nothing else indicated anyone else had been here. He debated whether to ask if she’d seen another girl, someone called “Red,” but decided that might show his hand. Time to split.
“Not here,” he croaked. “Wrong room.” Fighting the urge for one last look at pink flesh, he backed out the door.
After shutting it, he leaned his head against the wall and blew out a gust of pent-up angst. He pulled the broken toothpick from his mouth—when had he bitten it in two? Damn he’d lost it in there. Wrong room? Wrong reaction. That blast of white-hot need tearing through his insides was the last thing he needed…
…and the first time he’d experienced it since his wife had betrayed him nearly a year ago. “To hell with Elizabeth,” he murmured, pushing off the wall. If any thought sobered him up, fast, it was of his ex. Focused back on work with a cold-edged intensity, he retraced his steps, scanning the halls for any stray long-legged redheads even while sensing he wouldn’t find her out here.
“Find Red?” asked the security guard as Leo walked past him into the hot, steamy Vegas air.
“Nah.” He stared up at a cloud that floated over the moon’s face just like the sign had covered the lady’s.
“Like you said, man, she’s always full of surprises.”
“Yeah. I said that.” The cloud eased past the moon, slipping into the inky blackness. Surprises. He pulled another toothpick out of the pocket on his T. Something had been wrong in that dressing room—but what? He slipped the pick into his mouth and began working it as thoughts tumbled over each other. No clues as to anyone else being there…the lady had definitely been alone…
Mentally, he grazed her image again…up her long, sinewy legs—the kind that made a pair of heels not just great, but killer. His mental journey halted on her navel, wondering what it’d be like to tongue that teasing indentation, before mentally moving up, past those luscious breasts…
If he had to ID her, he’d describe her body more than her features, which had been hidden behind a sign most of the time. Although during those fleeting moments when he’d been forced to make eye contact, he’d caught those curvy lips, slicked with that same searing red as her nails. Pert nose, the kind that probably crinkled real cute when she laughed.
If she ever laughed. That broad seemed pretty damned serious, and scared, for a showgirl. And then there was that mane of glossy blond hair, so shiny it almost looked metallic.
He whipped the toothpick out of his mouth. Blond hair? He grinned. Hell, there was his clue. If he hadn’t been riding his hormones back there, he’d have put two and two together and realized he’d found his mark. The curly hairs between a lady’s thighs never lied.
That lady’s were a delectable crimson.
CORINNE STARED AT herself in the full-length dressing mirror. “I think the plastic wrap hid more,” she murmured, staring at the black string bikini that covered the essentials, but barely. Thanks to those wedgie cup-things in the top, her breasts had leaped across the alphabet, from “Bs to Ds” as Sandee had said. Corinne wasn’t just hanging out, she was spilling! It’ll be good when Sandee gets back, Corinne thought anxiously, because playing sex bomb is out of this girl’s depth!
The bikini bottom was almost worse than the top. The triangle that covered her privates was smaller than one of the cocktail napkins she found stacked all over Sandee’s apartment. The rest of the bikini was string. Stretchy rayon strings that crossed her thigh and tied in bows on her hipbones.
She’d tied those bows so tight, she could feel the double-knotted, supertight knots boring into her hips. She’d checked out the ring earlier and even though she’d be strutting above people’s heads, she didn’t want some bozo running up and pulling one of those strings. Exposing herself to one stranger was plenty—but exposing herself to a roomful of strangers? She wouldn’t just tighten her knees, she’d tighten her whole body. The first living human being to experience rigor mortis. She’d have to be carried off the stage, like some kind of bikini-clad mannequin.
“And for the rest of her life, Sandee would have to hear about it,” Corinne said, giggling nervously.
The giggle escalated to a laugh. People thought she was Sandee Moray, not Corinne McCourt. Even if the worst happened, people would think it was Sandee who’d been carried out, not Corinne. Extroverted, wild Sandee—no one would believe it!
“That’s me,” Corinne said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Extroverted, wild Sandee!” A thrill raced through her, zinging her insides. When in her entire boring life had she ever been given carte blanche to act as wild and sexy as she wanted? To be a bonafide sex bomb? Never! Tonight, it wouldn’t matter if someone pulled a string—or if the whole damn bikini fell off—because after Corinne left Vegas, no one would ever know it had been her.
Realizing she would survive the very worst that could possibly happen filled her with a giddy confidence.
Looking at her reflection, Corinne stepped to her right, then pranced a little in her heels. “If I feel like prancing, I can.” She shook her butt. “If I feel like shaking my bootie, I can.” She shimmied and tossed her head back. “If I feel like doing the come-get-me shimmy I can!” Suddenly, Corinne stopped as a realization hit her. Maybe she’d been inconspicuous because she’d never felt the freedom to be anything else. Tony had been so possessive, so jealous, that she’d retreated into herself, always trying to figure out how to please him. Blaming herself if he got mad or moody. Reading all those stupid books because she felt responsible for their relationship…books with stupid titles like Making Your Man Happy and 101 Ways to Get Your Guy to Say “Yes!”…were just concrete signs of her insecurity, her putting Tony’s self-centered ego before her own self-esteem.
Hell, if there was any book that had helped her with their relationship, it was How to Make Your Man Howl because it made her stay home that day and face the truth.
Corinne smiled knowingly, and a little sadly, at her reflection. “Being forced into this crazy situation—pretending to be Sandee—is probably the best damn thing that ever happened to mousy, Inconspicuous Corinne!” she whispered, feeling the truth right down to her core.
Knock knock. “Five minutes, doll.”
Had to be Robbie G, the guy who managed this part of the MGM. Sandee had said he expected her to be punctual and sexy. Corinne was definitely the former, and she hoped the latter. “Be right there,” she called out in her best sexy-as-Sandee voice.
She breathed deeply and gave herself one last once-over. Bikini bottom was tied. Breasts were spilling. Makeup was bright, unsmeared. And to top it off, she’d brushed and teased her blond mane into a wild, frothy hairdo that would fit a “Sandee.”
She swiveled and strutted to the door. “I’m the one who should’ve been nicknamed ‘Tiger,”’ she murmured, ready to face the crowd.
But more than that, ready to face the rest of her life.
4
FOR LEO, AFTER SPENDING most of the past year alone, sitting in the midst of this loud, frenzied crowd was like jumping from the frying pan into the inferno. Before the accident, he’d have felt comfortable in this scene. Dug the noise, energy, and if not on duty, he’d have savored a cold beer and cursed at the fight like the rest of ’em.
And he’d have had Elizabeth at his side. His wife, the woman he adored. Hell, worshiped. His buddies had always good-naturedly jibed him, joked that Leo was “whipped” whenever he ducked early out of a card game or a drink at the bar. But he loved every moment of it ’cause he knew they were so jealous, their organs were green. Jealous because he, Leo Wolf-man, was the luckiest bastard on the planet Earth. Great career, gorgeous sexy-as-hell wife, loving home.
But now, looking back, he wondered if any other guy in the history of civilization had ever been such a sucker.
Here he was, nearly a year and a half later, sitting in a crowd before the start of a fight, wishing that gnawing feeling in his gut would shrink, go away. Ever since he’d been shot, he’d carried this feeling like some kind of invisible wound. It’d been with him so long, it was a part of him, like an arm or leg. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he had crazy thoughts. Wondered if he lost that gnawing pain, would he lose the will to live? Weird that some nagging, troubling feeling would have the power of life or death. As though if it weren’t there, he’d have nothing to ground him.
His shrink had said such a feeling was normal after an extreme trauma. Called it part of his “suffering” from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Suffering.
He’d finally asked her to stop using that term. He hated it. Made him sound vulnerable for crissake. Something he’d never been—until that drug dealer shot him point-blank. When Leo fell, wondering if the fire in his chest would be the last thing he’d ever feel, his gaze had met Elizabeth’s. And in that horrible moment, he’d seen the truth.
She didn’t love him.
The shrink had turned the tables on Leo with that one. Made him stop saying that. Explained ad nauseum that addicts like Elizabeth had problems. That she had loved something else more than anything in the world. More than her family. Or her health.
Or him.
He tore the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it on the cement floor, as though he could rip the memories out of his head and throw them aside. He’d never trust a woman like that again. Marriage and families were for other men, not this one.
The buzz of the crowd intensified. A fighter strode jauntily down the walkway, a towel draped around his head like some kind of backstreet sheik. A small entourage, walking with the same cocksure strut, moved with him. The sheik’s noblemen, claiming their right to fame with “We Got the Power” baseball caps adorning their heads and raised fists asserting that power. As the swarthy fighter ducked into the ring, a shudder of noise swept through the crowd. Then a second boxer, surrounded by his entourage, wearing “Kick A” T-shirts, strode down the opposing ramp, accompanied by loud rap. A woman in the row in front of Leo stood and yelled, “Kill ’im, Ralphie!” Her bloodthirsty ferocity clashed with her shiny beige stretch pants and silver-sequined tube top.
The woman’s cry was like a cry to battle for the crowd, who unleashed a cacophony of screams and boos, as though someone had taken the lid off their primal urges.
Leo’s own primal urge kicked in with a seismic jolt when the leggy blonde, the one he’d just seen naked, stepped through the parted ropes. As she leaned over, he caught a view of cleavage that made his mouth go dry. For a moment, he felt lost in the dark crevice between those fleshy mounds. And underneath that piece of black nothing called a bikini top, he knew were hidden those rosebud nipples.
She straightened. From where he sat, four rows back, he could almost catch the flash of gray in her eyes. Or maybe his mind was playing tricks. Maybe he wanted to be closer, wanted to again probe those stormy eyes, figure out her story. His gaze wandered. She looked damn hot in that nothing bikini…even hotter without it. Her hands momentarily bunched into fists. Nervous? A Vegas showgirl, or here called a ring-card girl, who was accustomed to flashing her wares in front of hundreds of people? But then, back in that dressing room she hadn’t seemed like your generic ring-card girl, the way she shook holding that sign in front of her face.
That same sign that someone was handing her now. For a moment, she surveyed the crowd, as though sizing them up. Again, not your typical ring-card girl tactic. These long-legged babes thrived on the thrill, the flash. In all his years in Vegas, he’d never seen one of them sum up a crowd as though trying to figure out if they were friends or foes.
Then those red lips flashed a smile that was more telling than anything he’d seen up to this point. That smile was pure, real. Hell, her whole face smiled, betraying an internal sweetness that struck him harder than a left hook. It was like watching Elizabeth Hurley go Pollyanna.
The girl lifted the number high over her head and began walking across the ring, waving the number as though nobody had ever learned how to count. She seemed a bit stiff-legged, then eased into a long-legged stride that made Leo’s heart pound with every step. Maybe she’d appeared nervous a moment ago, but this lady was getting into it. He could hardly believe her confident strut and the way her tushie swayed. And what was she doing now? Prancing? That little bombshell was prancing around the periphery of the ring, waving the sign, making the number “1” about the sexiest, steamiest number he’d ever seen in his life.
He blew out a puff of air and fumbled in his T-shirt pocket for another toothpick. Damn, he was out. He needed something to chew on. He rubbed his palms briskly together, wishing he could quell this burst of nervous energy, one of the side-effects of post-traumatic stress. If he were at home, he’d go outside and continue some remodeling task on his old Air-stream trailer, his saving-grace hobby this past year. But he wasn’t home, he was stuck here, so he planted his hands on his knees, the act somewhat grounding.
Focus your mind on business. He glanced at her hair, how the lights reflected off its fake blond dye job. She might have a Pollyanna, pure-as-driven-snow smile, but that hair color wasn’t natural—a little secret he now shared with “Red.”
This lady was a con.
Just like she’d changed the color of her hair, she’d change her story if he cornered her. He’d been here before. And Leo could out-con a con anyway. He’d just never dealt with one who made packing a bikini more lethal than packing a weapon.
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